He Was Like A Bearded Rainbow
by Fizzy good
Summary: Other WomanHouseWilson. Serious Mary Sue issues. Sorry. House gets a girlfriend. Wilson isn't happy. Slash, eventually.
1. The Rainbow has a Beard

**Author notes:** This is the first story I've published. The title is from a Cream song called SWLABR, and the plot is from the dark place where my soul should be... I'm incredibly sorry about the Mary-Sue. I really am. I have a problem.

Reviews appreciated. Thanks.

* * *

His normal gait, unbalanced but strangely graceful, had turned into something almost resembling a swagger. Instead of his cane, he was leaning on a young woman. They shared the infuriatingly smug half-smile of the newly coupled. The redundant cane looked out, forlorn and vaguely reproachful, from its new horizontal position in his right hand.

* * *

"So why have you been keeping me away from Wilson?"

"He would probably try to sleep with you, that's what he does to anything else that moves."

"I see. So why now? Decided to share?"

House grinned into the top of her head. "Never! But I eventually decided you could be trusted. Even if he can't. So promise me you'll be a good girl and not run off with Uncle Wilson."

"OK, just one small point? The whole thing where you infantilise me really isn't working."

"Sowwy, It's just because you're so cute, aren't you? Yes you are!"

"That's it, it's over, you're dumped."

"That's cool... can I still lean on you? Just until we get to the theatre."

"Only if you buy me a drink afterwards."

"Done."

"One more thing."

"What?"

"Do I have to call him _Wilson_?"

* * *

Wilson leant against the wall of the theatre. It wasn't a pretty theatre; not the kind of theatre he imagined when he heard the word 'theatre'. It was concrete and it hurt his back. House was bringing along his new girlfriend, _Mo_, or… _Jo_, or… _something_. Actually, this whole outing had been her idea. She was from _England_. Wilson wasn't entirely sure why, but this woman was annoying him already. He tried to imagine what her voice might sound like… Daphne Moon from _Frasier_? Or maybe she would be a cockney. He couldn't think of any other English accents, off the top of his head. He could see a couple approaching, and although he knew it was them, he kept on staring past them. The road behind was strewn with blossom which was swirling in the breeze, and he narrowed his eyes and looked steadfastly at the 7-eleven on the corner, and at the setting sun.

* * *

"Hey, Wilson. This is Flo. Flo, Wilson."

"James," she intoned, bowing her head slightly. She sounded amused. So did House, for that matter. As though they had been laughing, and had now stopped for his benefit. She had the same accent as Kristin Scott Thomas.

"Pleased to meet you. I like your…"

"Shoes?"

"What?" He replied, startled.

"Were you going to say earrings? I'm not wearing any. I thought I'd help you out. How are your dreams, hopes and aspirations?"

"Did House tell you to say that?"

"Absolutely. In actual fact, he has his hand up my arse as we speak. He's working the mouth."

Wilson turned to his friend. "I didn't know you could throw your voice."

"Just don't ask me to get you a bottle of beer," said Flo.

"Hey, _now_ you're messing with me. You're short enough to be a dummy, but there's no way you're old enough to order alcohol."

She exhaled slowly as though trying to hold on to her temper, but then cut this activity short and started laughing. "And I thought Greg was a bastard."

"Hey, hey, hey! There will be no casting of aspersions on my status as supreme bastard, thank you very much," House interrupted, enjoying the fight.

"Where were you when my honour needed defending?"

"Getting my hand out of your ass."

"What about my honour?" added Wilson, looking peeved.

"I have no excuse for that one. As I'm sure you will confirm, my hand was nowhere near_ your_ ass. Now stop looking so peeved."

House handed his cane to Flo and put his right arm around Wilson's shoulders. "Now let's get us some culture!"

* * *

The threesome strolled into the theatre. Two of them were smiling despite themselves. One of them was just smiling.


	2. Schmoopy

**A/N:** I don't own 'House', 'Seinfeld', Joni Mitchell, Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, Petula Clarke, John Wilbye, Tennessee Williams or Shakespeare, nor any of their works, etc etc.

This story doesn't seem to do what I want it to... I think it might end up as unrequited slash. Oh well, so it goes.

Sorry about all the references, I got a bit carried away.

Incidentally: Schmoopy, adj: excessively fond/nauseatingly affectionate. From Seinfeld.

* * *

"So. _Cat on a Hot Tin Roof_, huh?"

"What's your point?"

"What's _her _point, that's what I want to know?"

"Why does she have to have a point?"

"Oh, come _on_."

House stared at him for a second. "OK. You're in a crappy mood. I get it. Now stop taking it out on her."

"What do you see in her?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"Don't you think she's attractive?"

"Not beautiful," said Wilson belligerently.

"OK," House conceded, "but attractive."

"Sure," Wilson admitted.

"And she's witty. And intelligent. And _nice_."

"I'm not so sure about that point. Anyway, since when do you go for nice?"

"I have to go for nice. You have to be nice to be able to stand me. And trust me, she is nice. She won't stand for your crap, but that doesn't mean she isn't nice."

"Stop saying nice."

"Oh, be nice."

"She's too young for you, you know. And too short."

* * *

As Flo approached, carrying their drinks, Wilson reappraised her. He hadn't really looked at her before – she had been attached to House like an extension – but now his cruising instincts kicked in. 

She really was very short. Petite, actually, was a better word – she was also slender. She wasn't… _buxom_, like Cuddy, or immaculately beautiful like Cameron, or statuesque like Stacy. But House was right. She was attractive – very attractive. She moved like a competent waiter – gracefully, purposefully, dancingly. She had an easy grace. When she sat down, though – that was when he noticed her eyes.

He had always loved Greg's eyes, but they were cold, like chipped ice. You might be tempted to swim in them, but you'd emerge with hypothermia. Her eyes were also blue, but they were warm – and kind. They reminded him of the Red Sea. Those were eyes you could bathe in. Two pairs of blue eyes looked at him now, both full of humour.

House jolted him out of his reverie. "Do we have something on our faces?"

"I hadn't noticed your eyes before. You have beautiful eyes."

"Thanks," said House, "but I'm surprised you'd missed them all these years."

Wilson turned back to Flo. "What do you see in him?"

She laughed. "Meal ticket."

A recorded voice informed them that the interval was over, so they made their way back to their seats.

* * *

"I don't remember there being such a gay theme in that play," said Wilson. 

"Well, they excised any mention of homosexuality from the film version, I think," said Flo, "which is a shame, because Paul Newman and homoerotic subtext is a combination to which I'm favourable."

"You've got _Butch Cassidy _for that," House pointed out.

"True, but surely the homoeroticism is the whole point?" said Wilson, wondering if Flo ever ended a sentence with a preposition, and if not, how quickly it would become annoying.

"No," said House, reasonably, "there's the cancer, and the drinking, and Maggie."

"But the cancer is a metaphor and the drinking is a result of Skipper's death," Wilson said.

"And Maggie?"

"Her frustration is owed to her husband's sexuality."

"No. He's not gay."

"I think he is."

"Me too," interjected Flo, too quickly. "Let's get pancakes.

Wilson glanced at his watch, then at House. "It's nearly eleven," said his friend.

"I know a little place where they never close," said Flo enticingly.

Wilson smirked. "Are the lights so much brighter there?"

"Well, if you want we can linger on the sidewalk where the neon lights are pretty."

"How can we lose?"

House rolled his eyes. "Where is this place?"

His current co-favourite person and his permanent favourite person stared at him incredulously, and answered in unison. "Downtown!"

* * *

House was outside, smoking a cigar and not looking entirely pleased with himself. 

"What's he _doing_ out there?" said Wilson. "It's starting to rain."

"He wants to see what'll happen if he leaves us alone together," said Flo noncommittally, prodding her stack of pancakes with a fork, spreading the maple syrup across the surface like butter.

"I'm sorry. I have to ask…"

"Yes?"

"What do you… why do you like him exactly?"

She threw up her hands. "Oh, God! What kind of a question is that?"

"I mean, what are you looking to get out of this?"

"It's a _relationship_, James; I don't have an ulterior motive. I just love him."

"You do? A little early for that, isn't it?"

"It's not as though it was a conscious decision."

"I just have to make sure you're not looking to fix him."

"_Fix_ him?"

"Change him. Whatever."

"Well, first of all, I'm already in love with him… do you know that sonnet? 'Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove'?"

"Vaguely," muttered Wilson to the table. He looked up. "'Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediment'."

"There we go! You're coming around to my point of view."

"Yeah, very clever."

"Actually, there's a poem by John Wilbye which I think is germane to this discussion."

"Germane, huh? Go on."

"'Love not me for comely grace/ For my pleasing eye or face;/ Nor for any outward part/ No, nor for my constant heart/ For those may fail or turn to ill/ So thou and I shall sever./ Keep therefore a true woman's eye/ And love me still, but know not why;/ So hast thou the same reason still/ To dote upon me ever.'"

"Well. That's quite impressive."

"We all have our area of expertise. Mine is mainly English poetry. Yours, I suppose, would be…"

"Cancer," said Wilson, in a vaguely lugubrious tone.

"Now which of us do you think contributes more to society?"

"I wouldn't like to judge. To get back to the topic…"

"Damn. I thought I'd thrown you off the scent."

"Doesn't he piss you off? Just a little?"

"Well, you know what Joan Baez said."

"'You don't know what you got 'til it's gone'?"

"That was Joni Mitchell. I was talking about 'genius is hell to live with'."

"Well, she got that right. Just out of curiosity, do you ever express a thought in your own words?"

"Not really. Just like Bob Dylan says, 'if there's an original thought out there, I could use it right about now'."

Wilson laughed. He couldn't help liking her. But then, House had always had better taste in women than Wilson. Not to mention neckwear.

"So, let me ask _you_ something," she said, her voice becoming serious. "Why were you so determined to dislike me?"

"I wasn't… OK. You know that episode of _Seinfeld_ with the armoire?"

She nodded. "_The Soup Nazi_. Oh my God! Schmoopy! You think we're schmoopy! That's ridiculous. House has never been schmoopy in his life. Maybe behind locked doors with Stacy, but even then I doubt it… and as for me, I avoid it as far as possible. Especially in public."

"Huh. You know your _Seinfeld_."

"Of course."

"It's not that you actually _were_ schmoopy, it's just that I'm feeling a little bitter at the moment and I guess any kind of affection whatsoever seems a little schmoopy to me. I can't say the word 'schmoopy' again with a straight face, I'm sorry."

She grinned. "So if House is Jerry, and I'm whatshername, does that make you George?"

"I don't wanna be George!" whined Wilson. They both laughed.

"I always thought of myself as mostly Jerry, with a little Elaine and Kramer thrown into the mix. But I think deep down, we're all George, aren't we?"

"I know I'm not."

"Suit yourself, you can be Newman."

"OK, sheesh, I'll admit to being George."

Suddenly the doors flew open and House stalked in, as far as one can stalk while leaning on a cane. He looked extremely damp, and his face was like the thunder that was shaking the roof.

"How come nobody came to talk me in?"

"Sorry, schmoopy," said Flo innocently.

House narrowed his eyes at her. "OK," he said slowly. "No more coffee for you." To his surprise, the other two burst out laughing, and almost as one shouted "coffee Nazi!" He decided to chalk it up to ineffability.

"So what have you guys been talking about?"

"Jewish stuff," said Flo immediately.

"You're not Jewish," he protested.

"My grandfather was. I briefly considered converting, but I thought maybe the fact that I don't believe in God might hold me back."

"You'd think," said Wilson, "but it really wouldn't be a problem."

"It's not like you could make chicken soup, anyway," said House, his spirits returning somewhat.

Wilson looked at her. "Can't cook?"

"Vegetarian," she admitted, almost sheepishly.

"So sad in one so young," he said, raising his eyebrows at House. House waggled them back.

For all Flo was growing on him as quickly as a beanstalk, Wilson suddenly wanted her out of the way as a matter of urgency.


End file.
